


at the right place and right time, maybe tonight

by passeridae



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Body Horror, Codependency, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Developing Relationship, Emotional Manipulation, Grooming, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Power Imbalance, Psychological Torture, Restraints, Torture, Vampires, in a black ops training sense rather than a sexy one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:29:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27523078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passeridae/pseuds/passeridae
Summary: Gabriel Reyes has needed blood to survive since SEP moulded him into something inhuman. Jesse McCree tastes divine. Blackwatch moulds him into something useful, more than just a meal."Gabriel’s blood is potent. It's also far from human friendly. Most who ingest it die, many of them quickly, some more slowly. The ones that survive, well. Those ones tend to be useful. He releases his hold on the whelp, lets him curl into a ball and press his hands to his right eye, whimpering. No escape attempts now, he'll be in far too much pain for that. It'll be a wonder if he can walk. Gabriel takes his time in collecting some of the kid's blood, licks it off his thumb and rumbles out a low moan at the taste. Rich and sweet, christ that's good. He can feel as his eyes flare red."
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Reaper | Gabriel Reyes
Comments: 9
Kudos: 38





	at the right place and right time, maybe tonight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madburnish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madburnish/gifts).



> Many thanks to oak for three delicious prompts which were all so tasty I couldn't choose, and so wrote all three of them in one fic.
> 
> Hope you enjoy <3

They're half way through the raid on the Deadlock base when Gabriel realises that somebody is sniping down his men. 

It’s not just one or two lucky shots, either. No, he hears operative after operative go silent, feels his ties to them snuff themselves out. He watches a bullet hit straight between the eyes of a new recruit on the ground and curses. Who the fuck is this, and where did they come from? Deadlock is meant to be a bunch of idiot kids, where'd they get this sort of firepower?

He follows the bullet's trajectory, catching sight of a gleam of metal, a flutter of movement. There. Gabriel moves closer, sticking to the shadows, blending in until he’s close enough to see who it is. 

And of course it's a fucking kid. One of the little head honchos, picking off his men like they're amateurs and not the highly trained operatives they are. Even through the dense veil of his frustration, Gabriel has to admit the whelp's aim is impeccable. His situational awareness less so. Kid's gonna have a great time in supermax, he thinks as he wraiths behind him to take him out. 

He doesn’t count on the kid hearing him, jerking round with his revolver in hand. Somehow, he manages to pistol whip him right across the nose. Gabriel feels the cartilage give, feels blood start to pour down his face. That impudent little… he pounces, knocking the kid back and sending the revolver flying. Nobody would mind if he comes out roughed up a little, and it sure as hell would make Gabriel feel better about all those operatives he'd just lost. 

The kid yelps as his back hits the ground, then sucks in a sharp breath of air as a loose nail in a board punctures straight through the palm of his hand. Not a single scream, now that's interesting. Then, all thought leaves Gabriel's head as the scent of the whelp’s blood fills the air, clear and bright over the smell of cordite and smoke and death. Gabriel has never smelled something so good in his _life._

Before he realises it, he’s leaning forwards, towards the smell. He just wants a taste, just… 

His own blood drips from his chin in a steady patter. The whelp, mouth open to pant in fear and pain, swallows nervously as Gabriel's face gets closer and closer. He looks like he's steeling himself to do something, probably planning on headbutting Gabriel in some misguided escape attempt. 

Then, he screams. His lips are stained carmine, but it isn’t his own blood that's on them.

Gabriel’s blood is potent. It's also far from human friendly. Most who ingest it die, many of them quickly, some more slowly. The ones that survive, well. Those ones tend to be useful. He releases his hold on the whelp, lets him curl into a ball and press his hands to his right eye, whimpering. No escape attempts now, he'll be in far too much pain for that. It'll be a wonder if he can walk. Gabriel takes his time in collecting some of the kid's blood, licks it off his thumb and rumbles out a low moan at the taste. Rich and sweet, christ that's good. He can feel as his eyes flare red.

When a few minutes pass and the whelp is still breathing, fast and shallow under the scorching sun, Gabriel lets his mouth curl into a satisfied smile. “Looks like you’re coming with me then,” he tells him, radioing through to the remains of his team that he’s picked up a hostage, someone potentially useful. 

His team eye the grimy, scrawny kid with suspicion and anger, but know better than to say anything at this juncture. They can see the red on the kid's mouth, they know what that means for his survival rate. They've all been there themselves, after all. Either the kid will make it through their version of basic, or he won’t, and it’s only after that they’ll have a right to complain.

* * *

Jesse wakes, and wishes he hadn't. His head pounds, pain radiating out from his right eye to wrap around his head and throb in time with his heartbeat. What the fuck happened? He remembers Ashe yelling, sniping down the assholes who'd dared invade their turf one by one as they were dumb enough to pop their heads up, then a strange smoke, inky black in the harsh midday sun then… then pain. Pain and darkness. Was he drugged? It doesn’t make sense. 

He takes a moment to look around the bare little room he's in. A holding cell, probably, though he's never been in a holding cell with sheets on the bed before. A fancy holding cell? Where the hell is he? 

He swings his feet out of the bed and on to the cold floor (and he's been washed and changed, what the fuck, who does that?), then startles as a voice appears from nowhere.

"Greeting agent, my name is Nike. Welcome to training."

"Training? What the fuck," Jesse mutters, still looking around as if a speaker will pop out from somewhere. Nothing is forthcoming and what is this, a giant omnic? One of those omniums that were destroyed in the crisis? Are they trying to throw him off before questioning? And seriously, who the fuck changes their prisoners' clothes?

The voice continues speaking as if he hadn't said anything. "Today we will commence with basic skills testing. Please follow the instructor who will appear momentarily." Jesse keeps yelling, asking questions at whoever's on the other side of the system, but gets nothing back. Assholes.

True to the voice's words, though, a bland faced woman appears at the door a few moments later and gestures for Jesse to follow her. When Jesse doesn't move from the bed and tells her to go fuck herself, she dislocates Jesse's shoulder without her facial expression changing one bit. She only lets go when Jesse begs her to, voice reedy and high, resetting the joint with clinical precision. This time, when she gestures for Jesse to follow, he does. What the fuck is this?

Jesse's taken to a large, empty room and told to run. He runs until he pukes, then is picked up off the floor by the instructor, given some water, and told to run again. He asks the instructor what the hell kind of prison this is and she laughs in his face. After he can stand again, he's shepherded through halls bustling with people into a mess hall of some sort, given a tray of food, and told to eat. He doesn't trust the food, much too easy to lace with drugs. The people around him seem to act like he doesn't exist — he yells and cajoles and threatens and nobody so much as looks his way. The instructor doesn't push him to eat, just shrugs, takes him back to that empty room, and makes him lift different weights until he passes out. 

He wakes up the next morning, and wishes he hadn't. The swelling in his shoulder from yesterday's dislocation has gone down, which is weird, but every other muscle in his body hurts enough to make up for it. The instructor appears at his door less than a minute after he opens his eyes, which is creepy as hell, and gestures for him to follow her. When he tells the woman to fuck off, she breaks two fingers on his left hand. He follows.

His anger festers. 

He's put through test after test, told to run and jump and lift and pull. Nobody explains to him where this is or why they're doing this. Once whoever's behind this has determined his physical capabilities, they have the instructor intersperse intense exercise with questions about politics and tactics and an assortment of weirdly specific topics. He starts to come back to short books on his bed in the evening, and not reading them, he finds, leads to more dislocations and broken bones and once, memorably, an entire section of skin being removed from his arm. He reads the damn things, and tries not to let on how interesting they are. 

He doesn't have the time to wonder why, once he's read them, he can remember every word.

He's exhausted every evening, and always hungry, even though he's caved and is now eating the cafeteria food. When he'd stolen somebody else's tray, a few days in when he thought he was going to die from how hungry he was, they'd just laughed and asked, "new recruit, huh? Good luck with it." This place was so fucking strange. He tries to escape, but during the day he's under his instructor's harsh gaze, and at night he's stored away in his room like a toy, no windows, door locked in a way he can't break through. He's ready to snap.

They give him a gun. 

Another test, his instructor tells him, of his marksmanship this time. It isn't Peacekeeper in his hands, just a basic Beretta or something of its ilk, but it's a gun nevertheless. He shoots a few of the targets set up and it's easy, too easy, _much_ too easy, and the ease feels sinuous and silky over his brain in a way he can't describe. It's jarring, ice down his spine. Ice that hisses into steam when it brushes up against the anger raging in his gut.

He shoots the instructor. He doesn't ever think about it, just turns and pulls the trigger twice. Just in case. It's a perfect headshot, straight through the forehead. 

Time seems to slow down as the bullets slip through the air, then the instructor's head explodes into shrapnel, glittering silver under the overhead lights. What the _fuck._ A bot? Or an omnic, maybe? He hadn't known either could look so human. Shit, he hadn't thought, what does he do now, should he…

"Do not do something stupid like try to escape." A voice comes from the ceiling. The same voice as on his first day here. A robot in the roof, huh, what's she gonna do, scold him? It's not like she can grab him.

"Just try to stop me sweetheart," he says with a grin as he sprints towards the door leading into the hall. If he can just get to one of the other people he's seen around, surely they can help him. The corridors are weirdly empty, and when he bursts into the mess hall there's a silence that's ringing in its completeness. He wouldn't be surprised to see a tumbleweed rolling across the room. It isn't lunch yet, but he'd thought that there'd at least be cooks, or janitors, or somebody. Anybody. Where is everyone? 

When the voice comes through the hidden speakers again it sounds amused. "Looking for somebody? Which of my bodies would you like? I must admit, it will be much easier now that I no longer have to pilot them all, it's such a bore."

"What?" he chokes, legs feeling weak. He knew that computers could pilot bots, but a whole base full of them, that's insane. How didn't he notice? He doesn't notice how fast he's breathing until his chest starts to hurt and his head spins.

"Nobody is coming to save you, Jesse McCree. It's just you and me until I decide you're fit for duty."

Jesse runs and runs, hurtling through the corridors trying to find a door, a window, some way to reach the outside. There's absolutely nothing, no way he can find to leave, no crack for him to slip through to his freedom. 

The next morning it isn't his instructor, but Nike's voice over the speakers that greets him when he wakes. He doesn't remember returning to his room, and tries not to think of how similar it is to his first morning here. When he refuses to leave his bed, she sends an electric charge through the bedframe until he leaps up with a yell.

* * *

Gabriel dwells on the taste of the whelp's blood. 

He tries not to, of course, if for no other reason than practicality. His own blood is still working its way through the boy's system, and it's still more likely that he'll die than he won't. No point getting attached if he'll just bite the bullet before he's even through training. Nike sends Gabriel weekly reports — of how the boy's metrics are improving with training, partially. More importantly, of how he's interacting with the trainer and the other characters that Nike is playing around him. Of how, when given a gun, he shoots the instructor at point blank range. Gabriel's eyebrows rise when he reads that portion of the report, impressed despite himself. If McCree makes it, he'll be a useful asset.

Two months in, give or take, when McCree's rate of survival has risen from twenty percent to somewhere close to eighty, Gabriel decides to pay him a visit. It isn't just because he wants another taste of the boy's blood, though he doesn't deny that it factors in. There're actual reasons for him to meet the boy face to face. If nothing else he wants to give the boy a positive incentive to match the negative ones that Nike is so aptly plying him with. A chance of freedom, if he just behaves. And other incentives to keep in line, ones best delivered in the flesh. Gabriel has learned enough from watching the tapes of McCree interacting with the robots in the mess hall, from his research into Deadlock, that he knows just what to use.

When he wraiths into the seat across from McCree as he's eating, the man physically recoils, reaching for a holster he doesn't have. Good to see that Nike's tender mercies aren’t letting him get soft. Gabriel smiles, all teeth, and waits for McCree to warily resettle himself in his seat, eyes narrowed and gaze sharp. Gabriel watches him in return, patient as the grave. 

McCree breaks first. "So I didn't dream that after all, huh. I'd wondered. What does that make you then?"

Gabriel can hear the rabbit-quick beat of the boy's heart, pattering in his chest. His mask of bravado is well made, though; with just a little work it'll be excellent. Back in the gorge, with his men dead around him, he'd been furious at this boy for taking his blood, however accidental it may have been. That emotion is rapidly being replaced, every test he aces and skill he reveals to Nike's ever watchful eyes. What wondrous luck, this boy all but throwing himself at Gabriel, only needing fine tuning to metamorph into something perfect for his needs. A pearl amongst swine. 

"It makes me your boss," Gabriel quips, settling himself more comfortably in his seat. "You've passed the job interview, congratulations. Now we get to talk terms."

McCree's lip curls at this and he snorts in derision. Gabriel is reluctantly impressed that somehow the boy's bravado has remained unscathed under programming specifically designed to break him. Hardened soldiers have cracked before now in their training here, yet somehow this whelp is fine. McCree jerks his chin forwards, not giving an inch. "Got no interest in terms, unless your terms are you letting me go."

It’s interesting that McCree hasn't made a move to leap across the table at him yet — Gabriel's had new recruits try that before, not that it's ever worked. He'd have bet money on the kid trying it right off the bat, but he's sitting slouched, appearing at ease if it weren’t for the beat of his heart. Gabriel leans forwards, bracing his forearms on the table. "No, that's not one of them. Your sister, Ashe, on the other hand…"

McCree stiffens, then rapidly relaxes his muscles to try and mask the motion. His heart jumps in his chest, hands forming fists under the table where he thinks Gabriel can't see. "You don't touch her," he grits out through clenched teeth. 

Headshot. Still no jumping across the table to try and strangle him. Gabriel has to commend his restraint. "Yes McCree, those are the terms. You work for me, and I make sure nobody touches her." He adds an additional carrot, for good measure, "I'll even give you biannual updates. Otherwise, it's a one way ticket to supermax for her. Killing government agents, even if you have the money for expensive lawyers, isn't looked upon kindly."

McCree's nostrils flare and he nods sharply. He doesn't even try to bargain for immunity, clearly too panicked to try and sway things in his favour. "Fine, yeah. As long as she's safe. I'll do your dirty work." Really, the boy's just trading one owner for another, not that he seems to think of it that way. At least Gabriel won't convince either of them into thinking that they're family. 

He reaches out one hand for a handshake to seal the deal. Jesse reaches back, hand clammy and tense against Gabriel's palm. They shake once, before Gabriel's grip tightens and he, almost without thinking, hauls the boy's arm across the table towards him and bites down in a single smooth motion. McCree doesn't even have time to yell.

The boy's blood is even more potent direct from the vein, and the restrained trembling of the boy's wrist under his hands pulls up urges inside him — to tear in further, to glut himself on all the blood the boy can offer, to tie the boy up and never let him go. He pushes them down, not yet, not now. Patience. McCree is whimpering quietly, trying to keep the sound in his chest, but isn't pulling away. Gabriel knows he looks his most monstrous when he feeds, claws digging into the boy's wrist, eyes blooming over exposed skin, blinking red and sharp and _bright._ His skin, sloughing off in gravity-defying particulate fractals to reveal a shining keratinous layer underneath. Many people scream. McCree does not.

Gabriel pulls off after only a few mouthfuls with an audible, damp pop. He tastes so damn good. It's so very, very tempting to drain him dry. But, he tells himself, then how would he get to enjoy this taste again, better to savour it. And besides, this man killed several of his best operatives, it's only fair he replace them. "That part of the job description?" McCree asks weakly, pulling, now, at Gabriel's grip until he releases the arm, letting the boy cradle it to his chest.

He licks his lips, watching as McCree's eyes follow the motion. "Yes, a monthly requirement. I take less than a standard blood donation." That said, Gabriel stands to leave before he gives into the urge to bite into him again. McCree stands too, looking all the world like he's intent on coming with Gabriel. How optimistic. "When you're ready for the field, Nike will let me know. Until then, continue with your training. I get weekly reports on your progress."

McCree flattens his lips and works his jaw, but says nothing. Thinking of Ashe, no doubt, not wanting to endanger her so soon after being offered her freedom on a silver platter. Perfect. Gabriel puts a hand down on Jesse's shoulder, heavy and warm. Kneads at the flesh. The only human touch he's been offered in months — Gabriel can already feel the boy's heart rate slowing, his muscles relaxing despite the pain he must be in, bleeding as he is. Touch starvation is such a useful thing. He softens his voice, low and close. "You can get out soon, you just need to be ops ready. If you work hard, it means a shorter time in here."

This isn't strictly true — Nike is not only testing for physical readiness, but psychological reprogramming as well. All the work in the world won't be enough if McCree doesn't get the mindset to match. But, it's good to prime him to seek Gabriel's approval, useful to have him think there's a clear light at the end. And indeed, he's already nodding, mouth set into a determined line.

* * *

McCree passes. Makes it through interrogation training, builds up his tolerance to various chemicals, coasts through language tests. Geopolitics, improvised weaponry, the list goes on. Slowly, he's broken down and remoulded into something Gabriel can use.

When he finally joins Blackwatch as an agent, he slips into position like he's always been a part of them.

* * *

Every Blackwatch agent is tied to Gabriel in one way or another, Jesse discovers over his first six months or so working with them. A child's illness diagnosed with a taste of their blood, some kind of trade of service for power. Most of them have taken Gabriel's blood in return, all the field agents at least. It’s just a few of the recon staff who’ve skipped it through virtue of how indispensable they are, how annoying it’d be to find or train replacements. The field agents having his blood in them somehow lets Gabriel know where they are in the field, gives him tactical knowledge that allows him to make choices that bring teams home to medical, instead of in back in body bags. He’s turned a side effect into a tactical advantage and Jesse can grudgingly see that it’s brilliant. 

It also stings. Jesse spends weeks wrestling with feeling somehow... unimportant before shaking it off. What does it matter, he tells himself, he doesn't need to be special for Gabriel. For Reyes, his boss. It doesn't matter.

Jesse doesn't ask if Reyes drinks from everyone on the team, wouldn't know how to phrase it if he had the gall to anyway. But he watches, like he was taught in training, sees some of them go to medical to donate blood in neat little plastic bags on a regular schedule. Sees others not go at all. Nobody else seems to have a standing appointment with Reyes himself every month. Nobody except Jesse, that is. He doesn't feel viciously pleased to know this. He doesn't. 

Socialising with the rest of the team outside ops is useful, he has to admit, even if he often feels like the odd one out as young and comparatively untrained as he is. While he'd been in training, Nike had put specific emphasis on using this weird thing that had started happening while he was in combat sims. It felt almost like time slowed down, like he could line up shots perfectly, no matter how far away they were or if he could only see his target from the corner of his eyes. 

It’s absurd. He's pretty sure it should be physically impossible. He _knows_ he couldn't do that before. The rest of the team laugh, but then explain their own changes, which they tell him are caused by ingesting Reyes’ blood. They all phrase it the same, even though their changes are all different. One of them tells of how she tore the muscles in her legs using the speed boost she got. Another who fainted in the middle of an op because her lack of pain had meant she didn't realise she was bleeding out. Another who could hear a pin drop in a noisy room, and had to move into Intel because gunfights now gave him seizures. They told him how most of the Blackwatch candidates who tried to acclimatise to Reyes’ blood died. Bled out from every orifice with nothing able to stop it. 

Jesse absorbs all this with grim determination, then storms into Reyes’ office, incandescently furious. Reyes looks up from his paperwork with a vaguely annoyed expression at his dramatic entrance and that just makes Jesse angrier. "You fed me your blood?" he hisses, "when?"

Reyes laughs, putting his pen down as he throws his head back and taking deep breaths into his belly. A single pitch-dark tear slides down his cheek before he wipes it away. Jesse snarls and steps closer, he doesn't know what he's going to do, punch Reyes in the face or something. It'd be so satisfying he can almost _feel_ it...

Before he can do anything else, Reyes’ form collapses into a puddle of smoke under his desk, which slithers along the floor almost faster than Jesse can see to rise up behind him. Right in his blind spot. Reyes’ hands grab his wrists, twists them into a hold that makes his shoulders ache, and Jesse's anger mixes with the sudden, swooping fear that he's missed something very, very important. 

"No use blaming me," Gabriel whispers against his neck. His breath curls up, suddenly tangible, to forcibly tilt Jesse’s chin. "I never fed you anything. You took it yourself."

Without further prelude, he sinks his fangs into Jesse's throat. Not in the artery, Jesse can't feel the pulse of arterial spray leaving him, but damn close to it. It hurts, the sharp sting of a cut followed by a pulsing ache. Jesse’s muscles tense, the strands trying to contract around the teeth spasming and fluttering. Gabriel stays latched on, teeth sunk deep, taking his time, keeping Jesse's arms locked against him as Jesse tries not to writhe. 

He’s not trying to get away. He just can’t _stop._

In training, he'd been taught over and over that the body's response to arousal, be it from anger, fear, or sexual desire, were all identical. Brains are bad at differentiating them, which can be annoying or useful depending on the circumstance. He has never been more aware of this knowledge than now, with his boss’ teeth in his neck, when his anger takes a look at the intimate position that the two of them are in and decides that Jesse's dick really needs to take an interest in the proceedings. The pain of the bite, because the bite fucking hurts, only feeds into it. His wires have always been crossed, he's known this for a while now, but it's never been quite this... inconvenient. Gabriel's treating him like a fucking juice box for all he seems to care about what Jesse's doing while he drinks, and Jesse's about to come in his pants. It's mortifying. Jesse would like to melt into the floor like Gabriel can and just stay that way forever. 

When Gabriel eventually draws his fangs out of Jesse’s neck, Jesse's desperate to leave, and go spend ten minutes jerking off somewhere to get this out of his system. He’s almost ready to beg for it. Gabriel doesn't give him a chance to even do that, for all intents and purposes not even noticing Jesse's obvious raging hard on. Jesse doesn't know whether to be relieved or furious at the complete lack of regard. Instead of getting to jerk off to the fantasy of his boss giving him a reach around, he's forced to sort through piles and piles of paperwork as punishment for just barging into Reyes' office. It takes hours. Jesse stews in his arousal, trying desperately not to look at or think of Gabriel. He fails.

When he's in his bunk that night, he can't think of anything but Gabriel's teeth in his throat and Gabriel's hands trapping him in place. The knife-gash twist of his smile and how Jesse's response to the pain of his bite seems to fuel him as much as the blood does. He comes with his ankles tangled in the blankets and his fingertips digging into the healing wound on his neck hard enough that he stains his sheets with blood.

Gabriel drinks only from his throat after Jesse's outburst, either to reward him or spite him, Jesse's not sure which. Wrapping Jesse up in his arms and cool, inky tendrils of darkness like the jealous lover he isn't, leaving scar after scar in his neck until Jesse starts wearing a serape again to hide them from prying eyes, to staunch any questions about them before they start. He doesn't want to talk about it, doesn't want people's ill placed concern, or the teasing about him being the favourite pet to gain any more ammunition. He wants this to remain between the two of them. Remain his. Nobody else’s.

Blackwatch is good for him, nurtures him into something terrifyingly proficient. He performs excellently in his ops, to the point that he's even occasionally loaned out to Overwatch to protect the girls and boys in blue when they're dropped into dangerous situations. He doesn't miss the way Morrison's eyes linger on his neck and the slips of silver that peek up over his uniform. He just doesn't know what to make of it.

Finally, when Gabriel’s finished pulling his teeth out of Jesse’s neck and is in as good a mood as he ever is, Jesse works up the courage to ask Gabriel whether Morrison does this too — drinks from people. Gabriel looks at him with that cruel, cruel smile, like he's about to let Jesse in on a joke. “No, our golden boy likes meat. The fresher the better. Why do you think we never have any issues dealing with the bodies left after interrogations?”

Jesse doesn't throw up in the bin under Gabriel's desk, but it's a near thing. Morrison's lingering gaze suddenly feels much, much more threatening.

* * *

McCree is nowhere near as discreet as he thinks he is with his little infatuation. It's painfully obvious to anybody with eyes that Gabriel's feeding turns him on, and the way he shivers and writhes against him is a stronger come hither than it has any right to be. 

Gabriel keeps his head until an op that winds up well and truly FUBAR, an op important enough that both he and McCree were assigned to it. It happens in the dropship, en route back to base, the rest of the team arrayed around them either dead or in medically induced comas to stop their conditions deteriorating before they reach the medical staff needed to stabilise them properly. In the silence of the hold, the link between him and McCree burns bright in his mind. Without consciously thinking about it, he tugs, and Jesse's in front of him. 

Gabriel files this knowledge away to assess later — that's a new skill — then pulls Jesse close. Jesse has come out of the op mostly unharmed with only a few superficial burns and bruises, things that will heal within a week, but Gabriel had taken multiple bullets meant for his team. Better him than them, of course, he can recover far easier, but he needs to replenish his stores, the sooner the better. He can wait until they land back on base, heat a bag of blood from his stores, but Jesse is so close and the blood seeping from the breaks in his skin smells so damn good. He can wait. He doesn't want to.

Jesse doesn't resist being reeled onto Gabriel's lap, but hurriedly whispers, "the team," as Gabriel leans close, as if one of them will magically wake from their coma and judge him. Always his first fear, whenever Gabriel bites him anywhere that isn't exclusively private. _What if someone sees?_ Gabriel's starting to think it's a kink and McCree just doesn't know it yet.

"Is that a no?" he asks, lapping at a scrape that'd left blood beading on Jesse's jaw. Jesse's resultant shudder plucks at the last of his self control. He feels no shame about playing up his injuries when he continues, "I need to feed, Jesse, you can feel how much blood I've lost." His front is drenched with it, drying and tacky now, and he is not looking forward to undressing later. In all honesty, most of the blood isn't actually his, but that's neither here nor there. What matters is the smell of Jesse's blood in his nose and how fucking hungry he is. How he wants to tie Jesse down and not let him free until Gabriel is satisfied and sated and flush with blood.

Jesse looks down, worries at his lip, then tugs at his serape to bare his neck and Gabriel could purr at his obedient compliance. At the sight of tanned skin, blanketed in the silver and red imprints of Gabriel's teeth, a sight which always makes something curl low and pleased in Gabriel’s stomach. 

He bites down, and doesn't muffle his groan. 

Jesse's blood still tastes just as rich, just as drugging as the first time he had it on his tongue. And Jesse's response to the bite, to the pain, jerking forwards and into it rather than away, is still as gratifying as ever. Gabriel had decided that he was tired of people's whining all the way back in SEP, and so had quickly swapped from live donors to bagged blood and blood drained from expendables before they were fed to Jack. Jesse's blood, though, is an experience from flavour to form. Putting a layer of plastic between it would cheapen it. 

Jesse's response to the pain is just icing on the cake. 

Jesse's hips twitch forwards, rocking ever so faintly against Gabriel's thigh. An unconscious action, his body demanding friction. Gabriel decides to be generous, and help him out. He grabs Jesse's hands with one of his, twisting them behind his back, and with his other he palms at Jesse's cock through his pants. Logically he knows he shouldn't. Jesse's a subordinate, and younger, and food, and so on. But he wants to. And it's abundantly clear that Jesse wants it too. 

Jesse freezes, muscles pulled taut to trembling. He's held fast between Gabriel's teeth and his grip, shivering ever so slightly as he flushes a brilliant crimson, clearly thinking about what the right action is now that Gabriel's deigned to notice his arousal at all. Gabriel waits, continuing to drink, giving him a moment to decide what to do. Well trained as he is, he slowly relaxes into it, lets himself hesitantly push even closer to Gabriel, gasping as he jostles the teeth still sunk deep into the muscle of his neck. The movement of his hips resumes, jerky and small, testing the waters. Gabriel palms him in time with the motions, rewarding him for making the right choice. A pearl among swine indeed. 

Jesse moves so prettily for him, pulling against the restraint of his hand to feel it's solidity, encouraging him to tighten his grip to bruising with how he gasps. Rutting against his thigh like the whelp he is, tentatively, then faster and harder as he hurtles himself towards climax. Gabriel's almost full when Jesse whines, quakes, and flops boneless against him with a sigh. Kids. No stamina. At least Gabriel can train that out of him. When he's not starving, he likes to savour Jesse's blood. He’s not sustenance, he’s dessert.

As they leave the jet, medical swarming around the rest of the team like so many ants around food, Gabriel lets his hand linger just a fraction too long on Jesse’s back, stands just a little too close. Staff duck their heads, keep a wide berth from the two of them — their job is to not see anything they're not told to see, and Gabriel is good at making that lesson stick. Jesse is deposited in his room with orders to rest, then Gabriel heads towards his office. He still has a post-op report to write, and his meal on the drop ship has given him the energy he needs to make it to the evening before he collapses.

After he sits in his chair, the first thing he does is open his calendar to change the location of his monthly _appointment_ with Jesse from his office to his quarters. No point playing coy, now. His office chair gets uncomfortable fast, and he’s not even sure it can take the weight of the both of them. He doesn’t want to find out, either. And besides, the thought of Jesse sprawled boneless over burgundy upholstery is more appealing than it has any right to be.

* * *

“Saelim’s gone. I’m making you my second in command, effective immediately,” Gabriel tells him the first time the door to his quarters opens to let Jesse inside. Then, impatient, “what are you waiting for, come here.” 

Jesse goes gladly, selfish delight coiling bright inside him. He’s the only one of Gabriel’s team to have ever been invited to his quarters, he knows, he _asked,_ and now he’s his 2IC as well. He hoards the sensation, lets it feed him through briefings and paperwork and Morrison’s gaze heavy on him across desks as well as in the field.

They don’t talk about it, beyond Gabriel’s proclamation. What more needs to be said? Gabriel has owned him for years — all this is just formality.

* * *

Jesse knocks on the door to Gabriel’s quarters, bone tired after an op that went long and kept him from sleeping in more than snatches for the past two days. A scheduled meeting is a meeting, though, and he doesn’t want to think on what ignoring the ping to his comm would lead to. Hopefully this time it’s nothing more than a quick debrief before he can go back to his room and sleep for a day. Or two. Until he’s needed for something else.

The door opens soundlessly, and Jesse pads inside. Gabriel has actual rooms, rather than a single cramped box of a space, starting with a living area where the man himself is seated on a plush sofa with a datapad in hand, looking increasingly homicidal as he taps away at the screen. He spares Jesse all of half a second of a glance before he grunts, “Make yourself comfortable, I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Jesse takes a moment to blink a couple of times, thrown by the sheer level of informality in… all of this. He feels a little like he’s stepped sideways into an alternate universe. Nevertheless, he takes this opportunity to poke his nose into everything he can see, everything he’s wondered about on his past, carefully overseen, visits — running his hands over the books on the bookshelves, touching the various baubles displayed on shelves and tables. Soon enough he gains enough courage to peek through one of the open doors, into the bedroom, which is absolutely dominated by an enormous, dark wood four poster bed. Complete with dark burgundy brocade drapes and velvet pillows.

“Holy shit.” He looks back over at Gabriel, mouth agape, and the words come spilling out of his mouth before he can reign them in, “When were you born, 1810?” He regrets them almost instantly, but Gabriel, thankfully, seems amused rather than irritated, snorting and suppressing an amused chuckle. The face quickly twists back into frustration as the datapad pings and something scrolls across the screen.

“2019, actually. Now quiet.”

Jesse obeys, keeping his mouth shut as he pokes around a little more. There really isn’t much else to do. What’s more, sleep is still pulling at the corners of his brain, and it doesn’t look as if Gabriel will be done any time soon. He blinks slowly, eyes not wanting to stay open. Surely Gabriel wouldn’t mind if he took just a little nap on his bed, right? Just a quick one to clear the cobwebs from his mind. He’d be awake again before Gabriel even noticed. 

When he wakes, surfacing slowly from the thick, trapping tar of sleep, it feels like no time has passed at all. Eyes still shut, he can hear Gabriel tapping away at the screen of his datapad, the whirr of the central cooling system. His own slow breaths. His hair tickles at his nose, and he makes to brush it away, only to discover that he’s tied down. He makes a gritty bewildered noise, tugging again to confirm that yes, he really is tied to the bed. The tapping of Gabriel’s fingernails against glass stops, and there’s a shifting of fabric as he moves.

“I was wondering when you’d wake up. Thought you might be out all night.”

Jesse makes a vague noise, still too drowsy to form thoughts beyond, "this better not be another round of torture resistance training, ugh". 

"I didn't want you poking round if you woke while I was out, but you slept right through. It's a good look on you, I have to admit. Restraint suits you." Jesse finally pries his eyelids open enough to see Gabriel's amused expression. The man sets his datapad down and stands, cracking his back. "Stay there a minute, I need to do one more thing."

Stay there, hah, as if he can go anywhere tied to the bed. So funny. Jesse tugs at the restraints again, but they're just as immovable as the first time. Moulded to his wrists so he can't leverage any slack, pulled taut enough he can't use one restraint to loosen the other. It's not a surprise that Gabriel knows what he's doing, but it does mean there's no wriggling out while his back is turned. 

He doesn't even notice Gabriel coming up behind him, not until there's a heavy weight draped over his back, Gabriel's weight, pressing him into the bed. Sometimes Jesse wonders if he's stealing his warmth when he feeds, in addition to the blood. He certainly likes full body contact enough for it to be true. 

The teeth in his neck still hurt just as much as they did the first time, more, even, with the force needed to sink through the ropy layers of scar tissue that make up most of his throat these days. His reaction, naturally, is still the same.

It's been some time since the extraction jet, and several feedings besides, but he still flushes in mingled arousal and shame as he whines and jerks his hips into the softness of the bedding. Gabriel is pressed against him, over him, from ankle to neck, a restraining weight in addition to the actual restraints holding him down. He's pretty sure that he's not actually into this, being held down, but it's tied so tightly to arousal and pain now, the immobility just turns him on more.

"Boss, please, I—" He doesn't know what he's asking for, really, he just needs something, anything. There isn't space for Gabriel to reach under him, barely space for him to move at all, but he needs. He squirms, panting, and the friction against his cock makes him tremble.

Gabriel huffs an amused breath against his neck, fanning over the skin and making Jesse shiver and whine. He barely lifts his head from Jesse's throat, murmuring right into his skin with gentle, maddening brushes of his lips. "Move all you want, I don't mind. I can always tie you down more if it gets annoying." 

That really shouldn't be a turn on. Christ it's a turn on. 

After that he can't stop himself from rutting into the mattress. Gabriel is pressed so close against him it almost feels like he's fucking him, and the very idea of that sends shivers down his spine. He wants it, so badly. Gabriel is hard against him, he can feel it, the line of his cock pressing against Jesse's ass. Jesse doesn't realise he's babbling, begging Gabriel to fuck him, until Gabriel hums against his neck in amusement, pulling back enough that Jesse can see the glimmer of blood on his lips.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he tells Jesse, licking blood from his lower lip with a tongue that looks nothing like a tongue. 

Jesse scowls, rejection coiling low and sour in his belly. “So what, I can kill for you but I can’t have this?” he spits. Gabriel doesn't even seem to react to the accusation, curling one hand around Jesse's bicep and letting it dissolve into dark, curling tendrils that rasp over his skin like cats' tongues. The muscles twitch, reflexively trying to move away from the sensation, but he's still pressed down. There's nowhere to go. 

Gabriel leans back in towards him, whispers low and intimate against his ear. “Not yet, no. You have to earn it, McCree.” Any response Jesse could have made to that is cut off as Gabriel’s teeth sink once more into his throat. After that he can only whine.

* * *

When Gabriel rises from the ashes of Zurich’s HQ, he's ravenous. Furious, at how many of his carefully cultivated links have been snuffed out. Almost all of them, and it rankles. How dare they take his operatives from him, how dare they think that he would let it stand, that he won’t get his revenge. 

He can still feel Jesse, the link between them pulsing strong and bright. The last remaining of his loyal dogs. He drains an entire town of their blood in order to heal his injuries, then, revitalised, sends a mental suggestion Jesse's way. Nothing more than a gentle little tug towards him, almost unnoticeable, a spider plucking on its web.

He'll make his way back to Gabriel eventually. It's inevitable.


End file.
